


the twelve days of christmas (remix by crowley, former demon)

by phinnia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/pseuds/phinnia
Summary: There are twelve days, and the gifts need updating, because nobody needs milkmaids for anything that isn't carnal anymore.   It takes Aziraphale a few days to catch on, though.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

_On the first day of Christmas my demon gave to me  
A partridge with pears and frisee_

It was the morning of the twelfth of December when Aziraphale recieved the invitation from Leslie the postman.

It was very simple. Black cardstock, silver typescript. A single card, not dissimilar to Victorian calling cards. Scored edging. Very modern and yet ... retro, as the kids said.

_Kindly do me the honour of dining with me at the Ritz tomorrow evening._

Below, there was a black inset wing that he could hardly see except where it caught the light. It was foiled, black on black.

The angel smiled to himself and wondered what he should wear.

Crowley looked absolutely fantastic. He usually did; Aziraphale had been thinking this for some time. Since Rome, if he really put some thought into it, and _definitely_ since he was surrounded by the ruins of a church in 1941 and presented with a leather satchel of books by a demon with eyes downcast like a shy schoolboy. 

That night he looked even more marvelous than usual - tall and slender, in a trim black winter-wool suit with delicate silver pinstripes, and ... the same hat he was wearing that evening in the church, if Aziraphale's eyes weren't deceving him.

"You look lovely, my dear boy." Aziraphale says, and means it. "Is that bespoke?"

"Mmm." Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Real silver threads. You're not so bad yourself." He coughs. "I already ordered for you, but I think you'll enjoy it."

"Oooh! What is it?"

"Patience, I believe, was one of yours, wasn't it?" But he can see Crowley's smile, very slight, in the lights of the Ritz.

"Oh, _tosh._ "

Then their waiter turns up, and he puts a warm plate in front of Aziraphale. "Your meal, sir." This is their usual waiter, so he's used to Crowley not eating, he just tops up his glass of red. 

Aziraphale tries a bite of the meal. It is _delicious._ "Is this wild _partridge_?"

"It is." Crowley sips his wine. 

"My goodness, I haven't had partridge for ... oh, since ... at least the thirties!" He savors a bit of it, enjoying how it blends with the parsnips and the smoothness of the Bordeaux, and holds out his fork. "Oh! Oh, this is positively _scrumptious_ , my dear. You must have a bite."

"Maybe just one." 

Aziraphale enjoys every bit of this meal - the partridge and winter vegetables, the poached pears in red wine for afterwards. 

Crowley really does know him _awfully_ well, he thinks.

_On the second day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
A slice of turtle cheesecake._

The following day, Aziraphale was arguing with a particularly recalcitrant customer on the telephone (no, he did _not_ take used paperbacks, and even if he did, he did _not_ want her dead auntie's collection of Jilly Coopers, even if she _did_ have all of them, no, he didn't even want them then) when Crowley comes in and drops a bakery box on the desk beside him. The bakery box is tied in a black cloth ribbon.

He was not expecting Crowley to arrive so soon after the previous night's dinner, and he did feel a bit peckish. He puts down the receiver with more of a bang than he was expecting to. "Bloody Aussies."

"I know, useless, aren't they?" Crowley sits on the edge of the desk. "Never quit talking except when they're drinking. Wait, that sounds a lot like me, doesn't it? Well, at least I get drunk like a gentleman."

"That's not what anyone would have thought if they saw you in Calais." Aziraphale chuckles.

"That was _different_." Crowley says piously. "I was _trying_ to piss off the French, and it bloody worked."

"I can hardly believe you made it all the way down into that train tunnel and were still standing, no miracles or anything. Still in your human form, too."

"Took a bit of practice, that's all." He smiles at Aziraphale. "Have to go. Enjoy your snack." 

Aziraphale watches him leave, watches his hips slant and flex and swivel, and exhales as the door closes. 

My goodness, it was warm.

He opens the box, curious. 

It is a delectable-looking slice of chocolate-caramel cheesecake, with a few small slivers of pecans scattered on the top. 

He smiles and takes a bite of it. It melts on his tongue, ribbons of bittersweet chocolate mixing with the caramel.

So delicious. 

Bitter and dark, yet also sweet at the same time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gift three is something French, of course. Gift four is entirely different.

_On the third day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
Three French crepes_

He sees Crowley the following day, too, and he would _swear_ that the demon was trying to look better than usual. Today Crowley is in his more standard casual attire, but it seems more ... carefully selected. The shirt isn't plain black, it's got little silver threads in it, and he's grown the back of his hair longer and tied it back with more of that black ribbon. 

He comes in holding a plate covered by a silver dome. "Brought you lunch."

"Oh, lovely!" He removes the silver plate cover to reveal ... three crepes, filled with real whipped cream - the whipped cream was only slightly warm - and strawberry sauce, at the perfect temperature.

"Oh." He takes a bite and savors it. "Oh, Crowley. These are _marvelous_. Where did you find them?"

"A tiny little hole-in-the-wall in Saint-Germain." He sits down on one of Aziraphale's chairs, his chin on his hand, leaning forward. 

"Oh, these are wonderful. Bring back memories."

"Good ones?" Crowley arches an eyebrow.

Aziraphale smiles at him fondly. "Wonderful ones."

But the air is charged between them, electric. Like it was that day at the Bastille.

"Aren't you going to eat those?" Crowley asks him after a long moment.

"Of course."

_On the fourth day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
Four mobile messages _

He didn't actually see Crowley the following day. 

But he did _hear_ from him.

He'd gotten a message on the mobile Crowley had insisted on buying for him just after the Apocalyoops, and it was ... nice, actually.

**Crowley** : Hey, angel. Sorry, can't bring you lunch today, I'm off on a trip to New York.

There was a photo of Crowley, wearing a black fleece hat with two red tassels poking out over each ear and peering slyly into the camera over his ever-present Valentinos. 

**Crowley** : What do you think of the hat? 

And there was a final one later that evening. 

**Crowley** : Just wanted to let you know I'm back in Mayfair safe, angel. See you.

He looks at the photo of Crowley and beams. 

It takes him a while, but he finds the notes he made when Crowley was trying to teach him to use the phone. It takes over an hour, but he finally works out how to put the photo on his phone's wallpaper. And his phone's lock screen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days five and six are ... well, fairly important. They involve a lot of fleece. And a few realizations. And a fair bit of chocolate.  
> The Donut Plant is an amazing place in New York: they have a website [here](https://www.doughnutplant.com/). The donuts are that good.

_On the fifth day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
Five golden rings (of pastry)_

Crowley shows up the next morning, though, with a box.

"If it looks like somebody opened it, that was just me." He slides down on the sofa in the back room. "I already ate one."

"You _eat_ when I'm not about?"

"Not a lot, angel." He's chuckling, though. "And it was delicious."

He opens the box, sitting down next to Crowley. "Oh! Doughnuts!" He breathes in the air inside the box, inhaling a surprisingly complex blend of flavors. 

Crowley leans over the box, brushing up against Aziraphale's arm. "That is Valrona chocolate, and that is that green tea you like so much with sushi. That one is something called Brooklyn blackout, which the woman explained to me as being like chocolate with extra added chocolate, that is tres leches -"

"Like those lovely little flans from Brazil?"

"Yes, exactly. And that one is red velvet." He smiles the slightest smile. "I got all the chocolate ones for you."

"Oh! Well, this is all simply marvelous." He murmurs. "Which one should I try first?"

"Well, I have to admit _I'm_ really curious as the big deal of Brooklyn blackouts." Crowley drawls, leaning back on the sofa. 

"That seems as good a place to start as any." Aziraphale takes that one out of the box and takes a large bite. "Oh! Mmmm, this is scrumptious! Where _did_ you get these?"

"A place in New York. The one I had was wild blueberry."

"Oh, and how was that one?"

"It was ... good."

"Oh, come on, dear boy, it had to be better than just 'good'!" He leans back against the sofa and almost jumps straight up. 

Crowley's arm is resting casually on the back of the sofa. 

But he doesn't jump straight up. He freezes for a fraction of a second, then leans carefully back instead and looks over at Crowley. "Would you like a bite?"

"Maybe just the one, I mean. I bought them for you." 

"But _you_ ate one." 

Crowley just shrugs and breaks a careful piece off of the doughnut, which he pops in his mouth.

"Good?" Aziraphale watches his face. There is _something_ going on here. Something which he can't quite grasp. Something right on the fringes of his awareness.

But Crowley picks up another donut. "Try the tea one. The woman at the counter said it was one of her favorites."

So Aziraphale has to try that one, too. 

That evening, after Crowley is off to his own flat, he thinks about the past several days. 

The dinner at the Ritz. The cheesecake. The crepes. And the lovely doughnuts.

But the number of doughnuts bothered him. It turns over and over in his head. 

Five. Five doughnuts. There had been five of them.

There were usually six in a half-dozen, but this time there had been five ...

Five ...

Five of them. There were _five_ of them. _Five ring-shaped_ doughnuts.

He chuckles and looks at the empty box on the side table. "You crafty serpent. Rearranging old songs for modern times, are you? All right, then." He sits back and thinks about the number six. "I suppose I'll just have to ... play along."

_The sixth day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
Six fleece (blankets) for laying (in)._

Aziraphale spent most of the night dusting the bookshelves. And since there were a lot of bookshelves, there was a lot of dust to ... well, dust.

Crowley appeared in the bookshop just after eleven the following morning, and this time he was carrying a large parcel under one arm. He notices that the parcel is wrapped in red, and has that same black ribbon around it. 

He breezes inside. "Brought you something else back from New York."

"Did you?" Aziraphale shivers in the cold from the open door and turns toward him. "Gracious, it's terrible out there == oh!" A smile lights up his face. "You wore your hat again!"

"Yup." The hat is kind of ... squar-ish at the top, sewn-together black fleece, with red tassels at the tips. The tassels curve down over his ears.

They look kind of like ... devil's horns, almost. Probably entirely deliberate. 

"Well, I mean." Crowley stares at his boot tips, "you never told me what you thought. Of the hat."

"It looks very fetching on you, my dear."

As soon as it leaves his mouth, he wants to pull the accidental endearment back in, but the shy smile on Crowley's face is _delightful_. It doesn't stay long, though. Crowley thrusts the large package in his arms instead. 

"Oh, yes, I must open this." Whatever these are, there will be six of them. He knows that already. 

They are surprisingly _light_ , whatever they are.

He undoes the ribbon. The paper is just light tissue paper, layered several times.

Light and _squishy_. He hopes it isn't more food. No, it probably wouldn't be that _large_ if it was food.

But it is light.

He pulls the paper away to reveal half-a-dozen soft blankets in the same material as Crowley's hat. He's seen students wearing jackets made out of this material as well. It's lovely stuff, and there are several colors - a medium blue shade, a charcoal grey, a dark gold tone, a dark wine burgundy color, a forest green, and a deep, celestial purple. 

"These are _marvelous_!" he says, and strokes his hand across the top. "What _are_ they made of?"

"Originally that was all plastic water bottles, but humans cleverly figured out how to make it into that fabric. I thought you could use some new ... you know. Blankets. Things. For your sofa. Things to keep warm with." He looks out the bookshop window, as though he can somehow forecast the weather by looking at the stratosphere. "I heard it was going to be storming, and I thought you might want to be warm. And you know how awful wool smells when it gets wet, how long it takes to dry. These are just, well, they're light. But still warm."

"Well, these are quite something!" Aziraphale brings them into the back room and arranges them on the back of the sofa. Then he rearranges them on the back of the sofa. Then he rearranges them a third time. He's not sure which color to put next to which. They all look lovely, though. Soft. Warm.

"Anyway, got to dash, angel." Crowley says. "Have fun with those."

"I will!" 

It is when he's rearranging them a fourth time that he realizes the true importance of the blankets.

Crowley was offering him things to keep him warm in the upcoming season of cold winds and wet evenings. He wanted to make certain Aziraphale was warm. He wanted to make certain Aziraphale's _bed_ was warm.

Crowley was not just rearranging carols for the season. He was offering himself. Wrapped up for the season and tied with a black bow.

The thought almost knocked the useless human breath out of him. He did have to sit down, and yes, the blankets were indeed quite soft. 

Did he want to accept this gift? Because he had a terrible thought that if he did not accept it this time, it would not be offered again.

Not that he would ever think of not accepting this time. 

But he did have six whole days to go. 

And he did wonder what was going to happen with _swans_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets wise and tries a few subtle flirtations of his own.

_On the seventh day of Christmas my demon gave to me  
Seven down-filled pillows_

This time it wasn't Crowley delivering the package, it was that poor postman again. And these packages were even bigger than the last package had been. Plus he was already laden down with Christmas greetings' cards and human gift packages and these things took up half the back of his postal van.

Aziraphale made certain he'd gotten a good Christmas tip already, but he gave him a bottle of wine as well, just because these packages, whatever they were, were _dreadful_.

"'s not that heavy, sir." the postman says, jumping from foot to foot in the blustery wind. "S'just awkward is all." He carried them all inside - all seven of them - and then accepted the cup of tea Aziraphale handed him gratefully before he left again.

Then Aziraphale tears the first package open.

It is ... a pillow. A beautifully fluffy, soft feather _pillow_.

More soft things, for his _bed_. 

"You believe you're clever, aren't you?" He says to his absent demon. "You don't know that I'm on to you." He has a sip of his own tea. "I'm quite confident you'll work it out, though."

_On the eighth day of Christmas my demon gave to me  
Eight milk chocolates._.

Crowley didn't show up until noon the next day. Aziraphale was running out of things to do and had even thought (briefly) about opening the shop for a few hours.

But then he sauntered in just past noon with a square box, tied in black ribbon, in his hand. "Angel! Care for a snack?"

"Of course!" He smiles. "Oh, no hat today?"

"Nah." Crowley smiles back, very slightly. "Not as cold today." 

Aziraphale reaches out to take the box. His warm fingers brush over Crowley's cold ones. "Your hands are _absolutely_ freezing, my dear!"

"It's not that cold." Crowley shakes his head, scoffing. 

"It's _dreadful_ out there. It looks like it's going to snow." He beams. "I'm so glad I have all of these warm things now, I'll be so cozy here."

"I'm glad you liked it." Crowley says, not looking at him, and puts the box of chocolates in Aziraphale's hands gently. "Got your favorites."

Aziraphale untied the bow. And opened the box. 

There were eight perfect milk chocolates in the box.

Crowley picks one up and feeds it to Aziraphale. It is a marachino cherry chocolate. Aziraphale bites into it and sweet pink cherry cream spills all over Crowley's hands. 

"Whoops." He smiles, strokes Crowley's hands, raises each finger to his mouth, and licks them off gently.

It feels like time is slowing down. 

Aziraphale cleans one finger gently, with his tongue, and then moves on to the next, and the one after, running his tongue up and down along the side of each digit, laving it clean, making certain they were all free of cherry cordial.

He could hear Crowley's breathing, ragged, unsure. 

"Feel better?"

Crowley swallowed. "Y - Yeah. Maybe I should get some gloves."

"That's a wonderful idea, my dear. Did you want any of these?"

'Uh, no. I'm off to feed the plants." He walks towards the door. 

"See you ... tomorrow?" Crowley asks softly, a black figure against the dim street light.

Aziraphale smiles. "I certainly hope so, dear."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break to Crowley's point of view. I sort of went off-script a bit on gift #10, because I honestly could not think of a damn thing.

"Off to feed the plants. Off to _feed_ the Blessed plants! How _stupid_ was that?" Crowley shouted at himself as he took the corner over the kerb and almost hit a student. "You just let ... words fall out of your mouth!"

It was the licking. Aziraphale had been _licking_ his fingers and his brain had obviously gone all wobbly and so had his knees and Satan, if he thought any more about how insanely _amazing_ that licking felt he'd never be able to get home.

Fortunately he'd perfected the drive between Soho and Mayfair.

The Bentley sang 'Under Pressure' to him, and he groans and hits his head gently on the steering wheel. 

"Did I ask for your cheeky commentary? No! I did not! I'm going to _get_ it, mind, but I never bloody _asked_ for it!"

After an interminable number of minutes, he was finally at his flat. He parked the Bentley halfway on the sidewalk, leaving her to sort herself out (she did, later) and he tripped up the stairs only to fall inside his own door. 

Thankfully, his flat was empty, and he undid the zipper on his jeans with a hiss of relief.

Aziraphale already knew how to do amazingly sexy things with his tongue. Crowley could get hard watching him eat an egg salad sandwich, and there was nothing more disgusting than watching most people eat egg salad sandwiches. The way he hummed gently as he ate, the way he squirmed in his chair excitedly when new dishes were brought out, the way he'd wrap that tongue around a fork - there had been so many times he had been jealous of a fucking _fork_.

But this morning, with the cherry juice, that was ...

He wrapped his hand around his cock, already wet with precome, and stroked it gently, then firmer, harder. He used his nails ever-so-slightly on the underside.

Aziraphale's hands. His _mouth_ , on your hands. His tongue. Aziraphale's tongue was hedonistic and he _knew_ that, but this was _obscene_. 

But the thought - just the memory - of that tongue on his hands was enough to make him come messily and erratically all over his own hand, his shorts, and the bottom of his t-shirt. 

He lay there for a while and then decided that sleep was definitely better than lying on the floor of your own flat covered in come, so he turned into a snake to do that, slithering off towards the sofa. 

_On the ninth day of Christmas my demon gave to me  
Nine pairs of tickets to the London Symphony_

The following day Aziraphale recieves a fancy envelope from the LSO. He opens it with delight, excited to see who's playing this season, and is informed that nine sets of tickets have been reserved for Mr. Fell, plus a companion of his choosing, to see whichever composers he would like during the upcoming months. 

" _Nine_ sets of symphony tickets, my dear?" He says as he happily dithers between Rachmaninoff and Liszt. "Goodness."

He did not see Crowley today, but he got a text from him.

 **Crowley** : Sorry, angel, too cold outside for me today. I'll see you tomorrow, if that's okay?

It took him a while, but he worked out how to send a message back.

 **Aziraphale** : Of course, dear. Stay warm.

In a flat in Mayfair, a former demon chokes on his tongue at seeing this message, and wonders how much of his plan Aziraphale has figured out.

But he can't stop any of this _now_.

_On the tenth day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
Ten sushi gift cards_.

The following day Aziraphale got _another_ message from Crowley, saying it was still too cold to venture outside, and he replies that yes, he'll be fine, there's always Dickens. He was always partial to Dickens this time of year. 

Their postman gives him a small box from ... his favorite sushi restaurant?

How _interesting_. As far as he knew, the tenth verse had to do with _drums_ , but perhaps the drums had been taken care of yesterday? In any case, this was fascinating. He opens the box, marveling at the lovely wrapping job inside. 

There were ten twenty-pound gift cards in the box.

"My dear, darling Crowley." Aziraphale says to the absent demon. "This is really quite excessive! And we still have two days of gifts to go!" 

Not that he was _not keeping_ the gift cards. That would be silly. And terribly gauche, to refuse a gift. Particularly one of _these_ gifts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tables are turned, on the last morning.

_On the eleventh day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
Eleven ballroom dance classes_.

Crowley wasn't coming out that following day, _either_. Still too cold. Well, a cold snap had blown in from over Greenland just now and it was blustering like _anything_ out there. 

Aziraphale waited for the postman to show up. He'd already put the tea on. But _that_ day's gift was merely a slender envelope.

From a ballroom dancing establishment.

The angel's heart fluttered. He'd always wanted to learn dances that weren't the gavotte. He didn't know there _were_ still ballroom dancing establishments. 

He, and a partner of his choice, were invited to take part in eleven ballroom dance classes at any time during the next several months.

He imagined he and Crowley dancing around the ballroom floor. Crowley in that marvelous pinstriped suit again, or a lovely dark gown, whichever he decided to choose that day. Crowley had always just sort of shrugged his preferred gender of the moment on like a jacket. He'd been going with male these past several years, but Aziraphale would always accept him as he was and preferred to be. It was really the undefinable things about Crowley that made him so attractive. The wit, the style. How he was always _there_ when Aziraphale needed him to be. 

Crowley had always been _there_ for him. And it was two days until Christmas.

How can he return the favor? How can he be there for Crowley?

It is terribly cold, so he bundles up extra warm, in several sweaters, scarves and long underwear, before he leaves the shop.

_On the twelfth day of Christmas, my demon gave to me  
Twelve days at Lord's_ (Cricket Ground).

The last gift was ... an envelope. Very slim. But the last one had been slim as well. Aziraphale tears it open eagerly.

"Twelve days at Lord's?" He says to his absent demon. "My darling, I don't know how I can ever make this up to you! Well." He smiles and chuckles to himself. "I have several ideas, but this is just ... extravagance on its own, Crowley."

Sometime late that morning, there is someone at Crowley's door, and he's mostly asleep, so he just wanders out there in his 'I'm sleeping and can't be bloody bothered to get dressed plus it's the middle of Cold-uary' clothes (black sweat pants, red fuzzy socks, and a hooded sweater labelled 'Satan's School for Boys' on the front) to see the blasted postman at _his_ door with a package.

Why is there a package at _his_ door? 

No, they should be done with packages. It should be all envelopes. Yes, the last few were _envelopes_. And _none_ of them should be coming here.

"For you, sir." the postman says, vaguely used to moody Crowley in pyjamas, as he's seen moody Crowley in pyjamas a few times before.

Crowley scribbles a line with a few curves in it on the offered clipboard and mumbles, accepting the box. He sits down on his terribly uncomfortable sofa and opens it with a silver knife that he'd gotten from the Medicis that may or may not be poisoned. 

He stares at the contents of the box.

It contains a long black wool coat, an enormous black and red tartan scarf, and leather gloves. 

And a card.

A cream-colored card. 

Not that the presence of _tartan_ hadn't been a dead giveaway who it was from in any case.

It was a near-copy of the card he'd sent to Aziraphale on the first day of this. Well, it had different design features and the text was golden, not silver, but it was basically the same thing.

_You need to keep warm as well, love._

There was a gold-foiled wing on the card below the text.

"He knows." Crowley says to himself, and sets the card down with shaking hands. "He _knows_."

Then he picks it up again and rereads it.

 _Love_?

He can hardly breathe. It takes him a minute before he remembers that he doesn't actually _need_ to breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much entirely sexy times. Aziraphale reads too many books in bed.

The bookshop door crashes open, and Aziraphale looks up to see a wild-eyed former demon in fuzzy red socks, _sweatpants_ and a hooded sweatshirt that reads 'Satan's School for Boys' on the front. No sunglasses. His hair is a disastrous mess. It looks like it's been slept on.

"Tea, dear?" He holds up his cup. 

He watches Crowley's mouth just fall open at that, and then he recovers himself. 

"You _knew_ , you _bastard_." He stalks across the room and sweeps him up in his arms, peppering his face with kisses. 

Aziraphale laughs. "Your bastard, I believe. Why are you dressed like that? You look like a uni student on a grant. Mind the tea!" He just miracles his cup across the room with a thought.

"This," Crowley says, between kisses, "is what I wear to bed between October and April, so I don't _freeze_."

"I see." Aziraphale kisses him back. It's wonderful and brilliant and Crowley tastes like sleep and the slightest hint of reptile. "You need to keep your bed warm, then." 

"I do." Crowley murmurs into his neck. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

They stumble up the stairs to the flat above them.

Aziraphale picks up Crowley and just tosses him on the bed. Crowley shrieks with laughter, and they end up tangled together, wrestling. 

"Ow, ow, what the Heaven is sticking in my _back_?" Crowley wheezes.

Aziraphale pulls it free. "Fifth edition _Richard III._ " 

"Oi, that was a terrible one, and it's no better in the ribs, either." 

The angel sets it very carefully down on the floor, and goes back to trying to get Crowley's clothing off. "Those socks look very cozy." 

"I'll get you some." Crowley murmurs. "Good for keeping your feet warm." 

"You have bought me so many things these past few weeks." Aziraphale finally, with a feeling of victory, gets the sweatpants off. "Oh, you're _lovely_."

"Mmmm. Thank you." A bright pink blush taints the demon's face. "Made _that_ m'self." 

"Now I have to get this dreadful _sweater_ off of you." Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley's neck. "I want to see how far down that blush goes." 

"I like this sweater." Crowley nibbles at the angel's neck. 

"I'll keep you warm." The angel finally gets the blasted sweater off. Crowley's chest is surprisingly furry, covered in red hair. Aziraphale rubs his cheek against the chest hair, nosing down to Crowley's cock.

"That thing ... you did ... with the cherries." Crowley's voice is rough, ragged. "Damn nearly discorporated me."

"Have to try that again." Aziraphale murmurs, and climbs on top of his lovely demon.

"Try to discorporate me?" Crowley gasps, snapping his fingers to get rid of the angel's clothes.

"No." He sucks Crowley's fingers into his mouth, watching as the demon's slitted pupils blow out wide and black. " _You_ are more delicious than the chocolates were."

"Gaah." 

Their hips rock together. 

Crowley groans, long and loud, at the feeling of Aziraphale's hand on his cock. "Angel, if you don't quit doing that I'll -" He swallows, pulling his fingers out of the angel's mouth. "I'm gonna come all over y-you." The end of the sentence cracks under the strain, nearly breaking.

"Go on." Aziraphale looks straight into those dark eyes, liquid black ringed surrounded by brilliant clover honey lit through with sunlight. He grabs Crowley's hand and licks it.

"fuck." Crowley's moan is filled with sweet ecstacy and that's enough to tip the angel over into his own climax. They lie together on the bed, tangled in each other's bodies. 

Aziraphale loves the feeling of Crowley's hands on his skin. The long fingers, the nails he's just noticed have a new coat of silver nail varnish on them. "You have such lovely hands." he murmurs in the afterglow.

"You have such lovely _everything_." Crowley murmurs, caressing him. "You're so plush and soft and warm. S'wonderful, how warm you are."

"I have to keep you warm, my sweet darling." He kisses his demon's face. "Said I would."

"Mmmph. Not _sweet_."

Aziraphale smiles and licks Crowley's fingers again. "I disagree."

They manage to stay up most of the night and fall asleep in the early lights of a London dawn, missing the Queen's speech the next morning.


End file.
